Through The Veil
by Leelu's skittles
Summary: Harry jumped after Sirius and now...and now...Harry really, really wishes he hadn't. Stupid Sirius and his stupid delusions.
1. Superheroes are only freaks with masks

_**Title**__: Superheroes (are only freaks with masks)_

_**Fandom:**__ Harry Potter x Supernatural_

_**Words**__: 4303s_

_**Warnings: **__NOTHING! Le Gasp! There is no slash in sight! Just __silliness__! No drama, or torture, or sex. The first fic with _Supernatural_ in it that I post, and it's not Slash. What is the world coming to?_

_**AN**__: Inspired by (the wonderful) Millie-Winks, and Sam and Deans talk about superheros in her story (which happens to be adorable) By the way, my dearest Millie, I'm supposed to be updating three stories the instant I'm writing this. From now on, everyone who wants me to update faster – email her. Attack, Attack! Mwa ha ha. Pen Wars will start anew! _

"Are you sure this is necessary?" Harry Potter was standing inside a darkened alleyway, alternating between glaring out at Sirius and pulling at his outfit. He didn't want to step out of the shadows in case someone saw him.

"Yep." Sirius nodded, a solemn look on his face.

"The _entire_ outfit?" Harry really, really wanted Sirius to be joking.

"Absolutely." Harry cringed and pulled at his pants.

"Even...even the..._tights_?" The word _'tights'_ was whispered like many whisper _'you-know-who.'_

Sirius nodded once more, not even sure himself how he wasn't pissing himself laughing. At the end of Harrys fifth year, during the battle in the Department of Mysteries, Harry had followed Sirius through the veil. The two had arrived in what had always been something of a dead zone, or a no man's land, for magic. It all just seemed to be sucked away, and no one could figure out why. The only magical people in America were exiles from their country of origin.

This America, however, was crawling with magic. The entire place was almost humming with the magical energy. It took less than an hour for Harry and Sirius to figure out that this is where the magic belonging to their worlds America was being sucked to. With the magic practically saturating the air, it was no surprise that there were magical creatures almost everywhere.

Ghosts, Poltergeists, Werewolves, Vampires, Nixes, Wendigo, Shape shifters, Psychics, Ghouls, Spirits and even Demons were rampant. The part of Harry that housed the hero complex, and the part of Sirius that couldn't pass up adventure, danger and sharp, shiny, pointy things immediately jumped on the bandwagon of _'save the unsuspecting villagers from the evil monsters of the night.'_

Even though they weren't really villagers, more like suburbanites, and the evil monsters of the night weren't always evil _or_ monsters, it was still a valid occupation – according to Sirius. But since it didn't actually pay, Harry also worked in a bar. Sirius' contribution to their income was beating people at poker.

But their desire to save people was the reason Harry was trying unsuccessfully to escape through the wall via osmosis.

'_You're going to be a hero, Harry! We're going to be heroes! But, we'll need costumes.'_

Sirius chose their costumes, which is why Sirius was standing there in leather pants and a black trench coat looking like some type of mob enforcer with his wraparound sunglasses and guns and Harry was wearing black tights, and a black leotard.

"Please, Sirius, can we just change my outfit? Why can't we match?" Sirius rolled his eyes.

"Because there can't be two leather clad, gun wielding masked crusaders defending the innocent and unprepared from the sly, slippery, soul sucking demons of the night." Harry rolled his eyes, shaking his head.

"You practiced that, didn't you?" Sirius removed palm cards from his trench coat pocket and waved them around a bit. There was a stalemate as Sirius tried not to wilt under the paint stripping glare of the once saviour.

"I don't wield guns, Sirius." Harry moved slightly and the dim, flickering light of a distant street lamp dully reflected off a few of the knives hanging from his belt.

"That's Right. You're all stabby, stabby, jab, jab." Harry rolled his eyes.

"Sirius. We are going home and I'm getting a different costume. Or we're going to go do a break and enter on a costume shop -" He was cut off by Sirius brilliant smile, seconds before he ran off.

"I know this _great_ place!" Harry sighed, rolling his head back to view the night sky.

"Why?" He groaned before running off after the grown man who, Harry was sure, had some type of rare form of ADD or ADHD which stemmed purely from idiocy, rather than anything else. Harry started to job after Sirius, thankful that it was night, so no one was out, and even if they were it was too dark to really see more than a shadow.

After a few blocks, Harry followed Sirius' lead and stopped in front of a shop. Harry looked around to see if anyone was watching them, ignoring the fact that it took less than ten seconds for Sirius to pick the lock and get inside. Without magic.

The costume shop was worse than Harry had imagined. French maid outfits, sexy nurses, and short skirts ran rampant. Harry looked around, slightly wary of touching anything, until Sirius called out for him. Harry walked over and was hit in the face by a pair of boots that slammed into his nose.

"Fuck! Sirius!" Harry clutched his nose, trying to stem the bleeding. He tilted his head back while trying to glare at Sirius. The man just shrugged, a smile on his face as he continued to rummage through an old chest.

"This box contains random piece of costume wear that no long have a full costume, or which have become out of date." Harry sat down, letting go of his nose and just allowing the blood to run down his face.

"You shall wear those boots, instead of your joggers, these pants instead of your tights and this shirt instead of that leotard." Sirius threw the clothes at Harry, before bouncing off to go find a mask. Harry looked at the clothing and rolled his eyes. The pants were made of a black, untreated hide and were hardly any better than his current tights in the matter of exactly how tight they'd be. The top was a formal shirt made of cotton and was a dusky orange colour.

The boots, though, were the worst. Harry pulled them up, and the black leather finished just under his knees. Thankfully they didn't have a heel – or there would be one less wizard in this universe. Altogether, the outfit made him look like just as much of a pansy as the all black tights and leotard combination. Harry sighed. He knew that it was as good as he was going to get.

Sirius was merciless, and Harry was thinking he shouldn't have thrown cold water on the man to wake him up a few weeks ago.

Before Harry could go look for Sirius, the black haired man bounced out from behind a clothing rack. He was now wearing a hockey mask, the bone white contrasting with the rest of his black outfit. Harry cringed as he imagined what Sirius had picked out for him. Maybe a pink, sparkly fairy mask or a cat woman-esque eye mask.

The mask that Sirius produced, however, wasn't something obscene or incredibly girly. It was basically a fancy bandana. If Harry tied it at the base of his neck, it would cover his nose, mouth and the bottom half of his face. Sirius then passed over the wraparound sunglasses that he'd been wearing previous to the hockey mask.

"To cover those green, green eyes of yours. Dead give away." Harry took the sunglasses and popped them on. There was a convenient mirror that Sirius dragged him to and Harry sighed. While the knives strapped to his waist and upper thighs along with the facial covering gave him an overall look of menace and danger, the clothes still looked like he couldn't chose whether he was going to visit his mother or the previous century.

"Pretty dangerous, eh Harry?" The almost sixteen year old sighed.

"Yes Sirius. I am forever thankful that I can burn the tights and leotard."

"Yeah. Still looks like your wearing tights though, so I'm going to take many photos." Luckily no one was in need of saving that night, because the two wannabe superheroes were occupied. Being beaten, and beating someone up – respectively.

"Sirius?" Harry's voice was calm, even. One hand was resting on a D guard Bowie knife he'd stolen from a museum a while back. Both he and Sirius were looking in the same direction, and neither man had even blinked at the juggernaut hurtling towards them.

"Yes Harry?" Sirius' voice was equally as calm. It was though the two unusually dressed and masked wizards were merely taking a walk in the park, rather than facing this world's equivalent of Fenrir Greyback.

"I left my silver knife at home – because you told me that there's no chance we'd run into a werewolf." Harry voice was still pleasant, but there was an edge to it that made Sirius wince. It was not good when Harry got angry. Normally he was calm and happy go lucky. When he was angry or they were on one of their random nightly missions – shit gets broke. Most often Sirius' nose.

"Ah ha...yeah, about that...I was...ah...joking?" Sirius's nervous laugh trailed off pathetically, as he reached for his gun. He would be the distraction, as usual. Sirius, though needlessly idiotic sometimes, was well aware that Harry was stronger than him both physically and magically – not that magically mattered too much anymore.

Their wands hadn't survived the dimensional trip, and there were no wand makers in the new world. The best the Sirius had been able to do was sense the magic in the air, and sometimes mould it to his wishes, but it strained him phenomenally.

Harry, however, had a larger magical strength and core. He was able to place his hands flat to the earth, and access his magic that way – through the very core of the Earth itself. Sirius had once said that he was like some type of male Naiad. Minus the masculinity. Accessing the Earths core was not only extremely dangerous, but draining, so Harry could do that as much as Sirius could mould the wild magic floating around.

But their magic had nothing to do with his role as a distraction. Harry had, since coming to the new world, not felt the restraints placed on him by the wizarding world for the first time in years, and had relaxed. This meant that all the anger and hatred that he buried deep within his psyche as a child and during his early teenage years came bubbling to the surface. The hunts were good for him to release his anger.

"Shut up and distract Sirius." The elder man rolled his eyes. He was really getting slightly too old for this – but only slightly. He was still young! Ish! But god, if that Werewolf got any closer to snapping his arse, Harry was going to have to cook him every meal for the next _month_.

Sirius continued to run; chancing a look back and feeling his confidence returning as he saw Harry slip the two D guard Bowie knives from his 'tool belt.' Harry took a deep breath and started off after them. Sirius drew a gun and turned, shooting at the werewolf to draw its attention.

"Oi! Fat arse! Guess what? I shagged your Yo Momma!" Sirius shouted, shaking his arse a bit, and he could almost hear Harry rolling his eyes over the sound of the gun shots. The taunt had the desired effect, though, and the werewolf focused all his attention on Sirius once again.

Sirius continued to run, and breathed a sigh of relief as Harry jumped on the werewolf's back and drew his attention. Sirius continued to run, just so that he was out of the creatures arm (and muzzle) length, and scowled at the slight tear in his trench coat. He kept his gun out, and trained it on the werewolf's heart, waiting for harry to vent his frustration.

Harry was using his legs to stay on the werewolf, almost like a cowboy at a rodeo, and was wielding the knives expertly. Any time the clawed imitation of hands got near him, Harry stabbed them with the knives. Eventually Harry managed to stab all the way up the monsters arms, rendering them completely useless. Harry then grabbed the fur on top of the werewolves head with one hand, easily retaining his grip on the knife, and used his other knife to slash the werewolf's throat.

The werewolf crashed to the ground, and Harry used the force of the fall to drive the other knife through the werewolf's thick skull. Sirius approached, almost casually, and smiled at Harry who was sitting on the dead carcass. Harry looked up from wiping his knives on the fur, and smiled at his guardian.

"You should probably shoot it with those silver bullets of yours. Just to be certain." Sirius nodded and Harry stood up, kicking the werewolf over so Sirius had a clean shot at its heart.

"Yet another victory for the masked avengers. Fighting the good fight, saving the innocents, keeping our identities a secret from our adoring fans so that we can live some facade of a normal life. Day by day, night by night, we persevere-"

"To protect the people of our precious home of Petropolis. Yes, you loser, I have heard this before. You say it every time. You do realise that we're not avengers, and we have no adoring fans. In fact, that werewolf carcass is going to turn into a human being again soon and once again the police will be searching for two _masked avengers_ to question, detain and imprison for the murder of a '_human being'_." They both ignored the quiet footsteps approaching, too involved in their conversation.

"And we don't even live in a place called Petropolis! What were you on when you thought up that speech?" Sirius sighed dramatically.

"Ah, Reaper. If only you possessed the same sense of drama that I do. Our nightly pursuits could be so entertaining. Can't you see it?" Harry shook his head at Sirius.

"Why do you call me that stupid name?"

"When we are our alter ego's we must assume different names to protect our real identities!" Harry sighed in a very annoyed kind of manner.

"Then why did you use my name earlier? You were all like '-" Sirius cut Harry off, once again back to his grandiose personality which Harry was scared to admit was his scarily similar normal one.

"Uh, uh, uh, Reaper! What is in the past has passed, we mustn't dwell." And Sirius twirled around, his trench coat flaring out.

"You're such a weirdo. You act as if you're the leader in this team." Sirius laughed, then, a very haughty, depreciating, Lucius Malfoy like laugh.

"Reaper, Reaper, Reaper. Since I am so obviously the more handsome one of us, with the better feel for the personality it takes to be a superhero, I am clearly the leader." Harry rolled his eyes and trudged after Sirius, eyes staring up at the sky. Neither of them had noticed their audience yet.

"Which is why you hide your face with a hockey mask; because you're undeniably beautiful. I have a name for you now, oh great leader." Sirius span around again, and Harry was starting to feel like he'd stolen some form of alcohol or another before their jaunt tonight.

"I hide my face, because I wouldn't want to blind you or our adoring fans. And you have a name for me? How marvellous." He stood there, and Harry could see the excitement through the slits in the mask for his eyes.

"Zangetsu." Sirius placed a hand to the chin of his mask, striking an unsurprisingly dramatic pose.

"Zangetsu...interesting. What does it mean my dear sidekick Reaper?" Harry rolled his eyes, even though it wasn't visible, and shrugged.

"No idea. I saw this t.v show the other day, some type of cartoon, and this guy called Zangetsu was a character." Sirius bounced on the balls of his feet a couple of times.

"Was he roguishly handsome? Devilishly good looking? Amazingly attractive?" Sirius questioned, and Harry wished his smiled was visible through the bandana.

"Nope. He was a fortyish year old man with unkempt facial hair, ragged, long black hair who dresses in tattered black garbs and a long flowing overcoat. They even called him Old man Zangetsu." There was a silence as Sirius took in what had just been said.

"What? NO! I'm not old; please! No, a different nickname. Please. Reaper, I beg of you." Sirius had fallen to his knees and Harry rolled his eyes.

"Grab hold of yourself, man. You're creeping out the corpse." Sirius peered around Harry a bit to see the corpse of a slowly transforming werewolf. It was grotesque. If face was halfway between a wolfs muzzle and a scarred, twisted, hate filled face of a now dead man.

"When you say things like that, it only reinforces my calling you Reaper. And the fact that you _actually_ own a scythe." Sirius stood up and twirled around again.

"At least, with giving me a name as your leader, you have embraced the fighting, dramatic spirit that is needed of a superhero!" Harry sighed again, rolling his eyes. He took a few steps before he crashed into Sirius.

"Reaper! Our night time romp fighting villains has been intruded upon." Harry rolled his eyes. It always sounded wrong when Sirius raid the word '_romp._' Just something about the word, and Sirius himself, making it feel not only dirty, but extremely sexual.

"I'm sure Old Man. It's not another dog again, is it? Because I really don't want to have to adopt _another_ stray because it _saw too much_." Harry now had five dogs, four if you didn't include Sirius. Harry looked around Sirius, and was surprised to see that Sirius had been right. There were, in fact, two people standing there, staring at them.

"Well, I'll be damned." Harry exclaimed.

"It's not too bad once you get used to it." Harry snorted at the so far unknown mans comment. He was the shorter one, and Harry had to agree with his statement.

"Reaper, do my eyes deceive me?" he ignored Harry's solemn statement of 'probably' and continued. "Leather, weapons, a masked crime fighting duo much like ourselves! Finally, comrades in arms!" Harry sighed. Sirius was grasping at straws. Again. It was obvious that something resembling charcoal had slammed into the faces of the two men, resulting in individual black patterns on both of their faces. But, once Sirius got into character, he went all out.

"Dude, are you wearing tights?" The same man that had spoken before said, looking straight at Harry, who frowned.

"Shut up, they aren't tights. Their just...really tight pants made of untreated leather which just happens to resemble tights at a distance." The other, taller, man valiantly failed smothering a snicker. Harry glared at them both.

"Aren't you glad I talked you out of that silly leotard costume now, Reaper?" Harry could feel a tick start to develop at the corner of his eye. Tonight was not a good night, not at all.

"Dude, that too easy. I'm not even going to touch that one." He shook his head, and Harry could see the corners of his mouth turning up in mirth. Harry had no idea how the two men had gotten to be three meters away without he or Sirius noticing.

"It's like you, then? Easy and not worth touching?" Harry snapped back, and both men paused for a second, before the taller one howled with laughter while the man who insulted Harry's choice of trousers scowled.

"Easy, men. We should not be bickering among ourselves when there is evil out there for us to defeat." Sirius struck another pose, and Harry could honest to god feel an aneurism approaching. It was bad enough in private, but now actual people would be witness to Sirius'...Sirius-ness. Not to be mistaken with seriousness; a word banned from Sirius presence. Literally. One day he announced that it was never to be stated or even thought of in his presence again.

"Is that guy for real?" The taller man's voice was incredulous, and Harry couldn't blame him. If Sirius wasn't family, Harry probably would have snapped and killed him long before this night.

"Unfortunately."

"So, will you enlighten us as to your names, good sirs? I am called Zangetsu, and this is my faithful sidekick Reaper." The shorter man beamed and then gave a theatrical half bow.

"I am Halen, Hendrix Van Halen. This is my b-e-a-utiful sidekick Justin Bieber." The taller man emitted a strangled sound and then turned a furious glare to '_Hendrix van Halen._' Harry felt sorry for him. He had obviously been named on the spot with the most degrading name his 'leader' could think of. Harry knew what that felt like.

"Wonderful names, chums. I do rather wonder if you will be staying in town for any longer. We could collaborate with each other; make the missions to eradicate evil easier." Sirius flicked a card towards them, which the taller one snatched out of the air. Sirius then drew himself up to his impressive full height of six foot three, and gave an assessing stare to the two of them.

"May we meet again in our quest for justice, righteousness, and a world free for our children to walk at night – unfearing of the darkness." And then Sirius threw a pellet at the ground, the thin cloud of dust making his escape kind of invisible.

When the dust clear, Harry was standing there, Sirius held in place by Harrys hand around the collar of his shirt.

"I am almost one hundred percent certain that I will kill myself if you ever manage to procreate." Harry sighed, letting go of Sirius collar.

"You can't just run out like that, especially when dealing with...allies." Harry shook his head and approached the two; he didn't miss the way the shorter man's hand automatically went for where Harry assumed he had some type of weapon hidden. Harry took the card back, and rolled his eyes and what was written on it.

'_The heroes of Petropolis can be reached by a scream of terror from an innocent citizen trying to escape the clutches of evil._'

Harry rolled his eyes. What a stupid calling card. How was that going to help? They couldn't be everywhere all the time. It was false advertising. Not that Harry was surprised, because it was Sirius.

"Do you have a pen?" The taller man dug into his pocket and handed it to Harry. Harry flipped over the card and wrote his phone number.

"If you need us while you're in town. We aren't nomadic; because I could not stand an extended period of time that would necessary to travel with Captain makes-me-want-to-an-hero over there." The two of them nodded, and Harry handed the card and pen back, before walking back over to Sirius.

"And Zangetsu, that was a shitty exit. For all the drama you always talk about, it was severely lacking. This is how you do a proper exit." Harry turned towards 'Hendrix' and 'Bieber,' a deadly look on his face not really hindered by the bandana and glasses.

"My name is Inigo Montoya. You killed my father, prepare to die." It was spoken quietly, and the two watching didn't think they'd heard right. Harry took a step forward, slowly drawing a knife from its sheath at his waist.

"My name is Inigo Montoya. You killed my father, prepare to die." It was said slightly louder, but not by much. Another step was taken forward. Now both men knew what they were hearing, but couldn't really believe it.

"_My_ _name_ is Inigo Montoya. You killed my father, prepare to die." This was said slightly louder than normal, and another step forward was taken along with a brandish of the deadly looking knife which could have classified as a short sword.

"My name is Inigo Montoya. You killed my _father, _prepare to_ die_." The two men backed up slightly at a particularly vicious slash, accompanied by a combination shuffle jump forward.

"My name is _Inigo Montoya_! You killed my _father_! _**Prepare to die**_!" This was shouted and Harry slashed the knife down, releasing it so that it slammed into the dusty concrete road. There was complete silence and stillness for a second, before dust and dirt exploded everywhere, concealing Harry and Sirius.

There was a menacing laugh from somewhere within the giant cloud of debris, which was cut off by the sound of an open palm slamming into the back of a head.

"What? I was trying to add a bit of drama to your boring routine!" A voice hissed, in a bad attempt at a whisper.

"Hey, I watched The Princess Bride before we left, leave me alone. And at least mine isn't over done, predictable and completely tacky." There was a gasp of horror as the dust cloud started to disappear, and the two hunters thought they would see the 'masked avengers' once more.

There was no one there in the street, however, except for the two of them and a corpse. Both spun around, trying to find where there gasped statement of _'you think I'm tacky?'_ was echoing from. They didn't find anything, however, and Dean snatched the business card from Sam's hand.

"That was pretty cool." Sam said. Dean gave a half nod, half shrug.

"Yeah, but he was still wearing tights." Sam shook his head, and followed Dean towards the corpse. They would get rid of it before somebody saw it, as the duo of obviously insane hunters hadn't thought to with their insane exits and unnecessarily dramatic and theatrical way of...well...existing.

"You know, Sam, I feel like a drink." Sam snorted, shaking his head from where he was dragging his part of the corpse.

"With that last scene, I feel like I've already smashed myself, eaten hallucinogenic mushrooms and watched every Charlie the Magic Unicorn. I'm just glad that they weren't wearing anything excessively bright."

"That orange shirt was a bit iffy."

"Your taste in music is a bit iffy."

"Bitch."

"Jerk."

The rest of the way with the corpse was silent.


	2. Fangirls are worse than clowns

Dean sighed, pausing in midway down the alley and chucking a hand out to touch the brick wall before he rubbed his eyes in frustration. Sam had already rushed ahead, because the two of them had been having words, and right now Dean really, really wanted to turn back. Not because he was wary of any type of confrontation with Sam (please, Dean could still remember the scream Sam gave when he found out that his hair shampoo was nair – and the pitiful glare) but because Dean could hear voices.

Not the voices of Sam talking to someone sane, or a passer by.

The voices of those two bat shit insane masked losers.

So yes, Dean wanted to turn around. Right now.

Unfortunately, he'd never hear the end of it from Sam if he did. So Dean continued his trudge forward, slowly approaching the end of the alley. The voices became more distinct, and Dean suddenly had an epiphany. If only Sam had listened to him last night, instead of wanting to know more about the 'superheroes,' then they'd both be in the safety of the impala.

And not conversing with people who are … sanity challenged.

"Yes, youthful citizen, we do protect this city every night." The loud, slightly flamboyant, voice of the leather clad man rang through the deserted street. Dean had, upon first seeing them, immediately thought the outfit was cool. Leather everywhere and a bone white hockey mask. Pretty damn awesome. But his personality… not so hard core.

"By calling this man here a youthful citizen, are you implying that you yourself are old?" Then there was the second man. Shorter by an inch or two, and wearing tights and orange. Sure it wasn't bright orange, kind of like a dull, dusky orange. But still…orange! Not a manly colour. And then there was the fact that the man wore tights. Super hero his delusions may claim, but manly he was not.

Seemed to like spitting sarcastic comments at people as well. Probably to make up for his own lack of man hood. Or maybe it was just his super power. How lame.

"How dare you insinuate I'm old? I'm not old!" And Dean rounded the corner. The taller, apparently old, man was facing his accomplice, who was standing there with his arms crossed. Sam was standing across from them, a look on his face that was a mix between incredulous and desperately smothering laughter.

"Not mentally, I'm aware of that. I simply meant that the physical aspects of your body are wearing out. After all, you do have grey hair." And then Dean was in shock, as the taller man gave a shrill scream and slammed his hands over his head. The man in the 'manly' leather tights, who Dean could vaguely remember was called something Asian, then sprinted down the street, clutching his head, and wailing at a high pitch about his beautiful hair.

Actually his hair, come to think of it, was rather long for a man. Maybe he was a transvestite. All the leather, insistence on his youth, the long hair and scarily multi-octal voice…yes, Dean could quite easily imagine that man as a woman. Not a woman that Dean would try and have sex with, maybe Sam, but not Dean. He was one hundred percent straight.

"I, unlike my companion, am not an idiot. Are there any more werewolves that are going to be headed out way, or any other beasties that we should prepare for?" Sam thought for a second. Not really. The only thing that might, just maybe, be headed their way would be a demon. But there was only a slight chance of that – so why panic the man?

"Nope, I can't think of anything that's headed towards here. You two should be good." The man, Reaper, nodded. Dean, though, had to add a comment to avenge himself from the surprisingly good call from the night before.

"Maybe you two should head back to your padded rooms and let the nice men with in the white take care of you." Dean could tell, even thorough the sun glasses, that the man had just rolled his eyes. He was a big brother, he knew these things.

"Oh, was that an insult? That came close to being half decent. For a primary school kid. Try again when you grow a brain. If you grow a brain." The man had a British lilt to his voice, and then he snorted.

"Been playing with make up again, two nights in a row? Someone should lock it up, or put a leash on you. But, from the look of you, you'd probably enjoy that." Dean frowned, confused, and turned around and leant down to look at himself in the side mirror of a parked car. Dark greyish black smears were just above his eyelids, as well as his temples and a bit was on his cheeks. It was probably from where he'd touched the disgusting alley wall and then his face. Dean walked back to Sam and Reaper.

"…any good places to grab a drink?" Dean missed the start of Sams question, but figured it out. He was asking about a bar, like a good little brother should. Dean glared at Reaper as the man searched his clothes for something, before pulling out a business card.

"Sam, we probably won't frequent the same places he does." Dean was staring straight at the tight like pants the man wore once again. A sneer splashed across his face as Sam took the card.

"Tell me, _Hendrix_, are you aware of the fact that you look like a whore. More than you usually do, at least?" The British lilt gave the scathing remark a little more severity, and Dean scowled at the man. It wasn't his fault the wall had been dirty! And he didn't normally look like a whore! What a complete asshole!

"Because if you normally look like that then, no, we wouldn't frequent the same places. This is a pretty decent bar. Clean glasses, fairly good music. See you later, oh Unholy one." Both Dean and Sam froze as the man turned to walk away. Dean pulled his gun, removing the safety in one efficient gesture. Reaper stopped, turning around.

"What are you going to do with that?" He asked, not sounding worried in the least. Dean ignored Sam glaring at him, and instead narrowed his eyes.

"What did you mean by that?" An eyebrow appeared over his sun glasses.

"The comment about him being the 'Unholy one.'" Comments that touched on the subject of Sam actually being the best candidate for Satans meat bag shouldn't be said around Dean. He'd a tad protective.

"Last night, when you made up fake names on the spot (Hendrix Van Halen? Really?), you chose Justin Beiber for your trusty sidekick. Personally, I would have shot you for that. I thought I'd keep with the trend. Natural progression and all that." He turned away again, lifting his hand in the air in parting and walked a few more steps before Sam rolled his eyes at Dean and the elder brother put his gun away.

When they looked back up, the mysterious, masked menace was gone – not even footsteps could be heard in the deserted streets. They both looked around for him but couldn't see hide nor hair of the man.

"He has got to stop doing that." Dean deadpanned, and Sam shook his head.

"You're just jealous. First Castiel, never making a sound, and now this guy. Get over it." Sam turned away, heading back to the impala. Dean pulled a face at his back, before starting off after his brother.

Dean shook his head at the name of the bar, looking up from the card and at the large wooden sign. '_The Black Dog'_ was where they'd just pulled into, and Dean wasn't too sure that it was a good idea. Sure, the place looked perfectly fine. Popular enough to stay in business, local enough that overcrowding wasn't a problem.

But a guy wearing _tights_ claiming to be a _superhero_ had suggested it to them. Dean was wary of going inside lest everyone be under the same illusion. Delusion, rather. Dean got out of the car, though, because Sam had called him chicken. Dean was not afraid.

Just a bit cautious. Nothing wrong with being cautious.

Inside the bar was actually quite nice. It reminded Dean a bit of the Roadhouse, except smaller. Hard wood floors, hanging lights, bar stools, booths and a whole hell of a lot of booze behind the bar counter.

The majority of the patrons were gathered around the back, where Dean could see a pool table. Dean slid into a booth across from Sam, his eyes still on the pool table. Sam rolled his eyes, retrieving his laptop from his bag.

"Get me a beer before you go hustle the locals." Dean looked at his brother, an easy smile on his face.

"Come on Sammy, don't give me that tone." Sam rolled his eyes again, shaking his head as his laptop started up.

"Fine. The usual?" Sam nodded and Dean walked off to the bar. He slid onto a bar stool, taping his hand on the counter as he waited for the bar tender to show up. A couple of minutes passed, and Dean started to look around, bored. He stood up and leant over the bar, thinking maybe the bar tender had been buying his own wares, and had passed out. There was a cheer from the pool table but Dean didn't pay it any attention, as he was still looking for someone to sell him some beer.

He did pay attention, however, when a strong hand grabbed his shoulder and forced him back into his seat.

"What were you doing, leaning over my bar like that?" Dean turned around and was surprised at the sight he was greeted with. Instead of some large muscular man, probably with a beard and tattoos, ready to punch him out for looking over his bar, there was a teenager with black hair, pale skin and bright green eyes. He did have broad shoulders, though he was more lean and wiry than muscle bound and off his head with steroids.

"Sorry man, I was just wondering where the bartender was. Thought he might've passed out on the floor. I'm Dean, by the way." The teen took his hand, and smiled. It wasn't a pleasant smile, however, and Dean suppressed a shiver.

"Harry. And I don't pass out while I'm working. You'll be on the floor, '_passed out'_ if you _ever_ lean over my bar again." Dean figured that the teen, man, was probably just very youthful in his looks. Why, you might ask, did Dean think this? It was the glare, which was like some monstrous cross between his dad and Bobby, along with the angered growl for words, which clued Dean in.

"I won't ever think of doing it again." He man gave an amused huff as he walked around the bar.

"Damn right you won't." Once again, Dean was reminded scarily of some whacked out, younger looking hybrid of his dad and Bobby. It was getting creepy. He just wanted to get a beer and go play some pool. And win some money.

"What can I get you?" Dean smiled. Familiar bar territory.

"A beer, thanks." The mans face turned enraged once again.

"We don't sell beer." Dean was taken aback. They don't sell beer? And the sudden shifts in the mans mood were weird. Maybe he had some type of disorder. Suddenly the mans face cleared, a smile visible.

"Just kidding. Sorry; I have to get my kicks somewhere." Dean gave an uneasy smile, paid, and then fled to the pool table – completely forgetting that he was supposed to get Sam a beer as well. Sam looked up as his brother approached the table, and scowled as Dean continued past. Sam stood up, shutting his laptop, and made his way over to the bar where Harry was still standing.

"Hey mate, what can I get you?" Harry asked, and Sam sat down, frowning.

"A new brother would be nice." Harry laughed, shaking his head as he poured a beer.

"Beer it is. So Dean's your brother. Good to know. I'm Harry." Sam took the beer, placing the money on the counter.

"Sam. And why is that good to know." Harry shrugged, leaning against the bar.

"No particular reason. It's just; this isn't the most progressive town. And people talk. Motel keepers talk. I know a few of my regulars who are a bit…" Sam waited for the man to finish his sentence, trying to figure out what he was trying to say. The man waved his hand around a bit before he spat it out.

"Homophobic." Sam practically spat out his mouthful of beer, before swallowing it and hocking instead. The bar tender patted his back to help him clear his throat. Sam shook his head.

"God, it's always so creepy when people think that we're, you know, partners. We're partners in crime, so to speak, but to think of Dean that way…" Sam couldn't finish his sentence, because he suddenly felt quite sick. It always made him feel sick when people thought he was fucking his brother. There were so many things wrong with that thought that Sam didn't know where to start.

"Sorry, but it's better to be safe then sorry. What if people continued to think that you two were intimate? You could have been beaten up. And what if someone had assumed that you weren't but you were? Only awkwardness and avoidable situations arise from confusion." Sam nodded. The bar tender was a very wise person.

"Thanks for your concern, but Dean and I can take care of ourselves pretty well. And I didn't mind you asking. I've had this awkward conversation before. In fact, once, I had to try and convince several people that Dean and I weren't having sex. It took me several hours, and I still didn't manage." Sam absolutely hated fan fiction. It was so…creepy. People read about his life and then, as if that wasn't enough, they warped it beyond recognition.

Further than that, slash fan girls were probably the most fucked up thing in the universe.

Including every supernatural thing Sam had ever come up against.

And clowns.

The bar tender nodded in sympathy, and there was silence as they were both drawn away into memories. Sam of that horrible Supernatural Convention, and Harry into the day he accidentally stumbled into a Harry Potter Fan Girl meeting. Right in the middle of a heated debate about who Harry would be better suited with. Lucius Malfoy or Remus Lupin. Harry had been so horrified that he hadn't been able to leave before they'd spotted him. He had been made to sit through the whole discussion, and then give his opinion.

Harry had never been able to look at Malfoy Senior (or junior) or Remus the same ever again.

Where do those ideas even come from?

Sick, sick places that Harry never wanted to see.

A few minutes later there was another roar from the pool table and Harry and Sam both chuckled, before raising an eyebrow at each other.

"Dean's over there, trying to hustle pool." Harry laughed.

"My friend's over there, doing the exact same thing. He does it every day. Some times no one is game enough to play him, so I end up losing again and again. It's not good for my male pride." Sam laughed, having some more of his beer. There was silence for a little while, before Sam decided to ask the bartender if he knew anything about the supposed superheroes.

"Those whack jobs? Oh yeah. Worst kept secret in town. They're supposed to do everything in the darkness of night, slipping secretly through shadows to supply sinister, sinful, scandalous wrong does with their just deserts or some shit. The amount of noise they make, they could heard a pack of rampaging rhinoceros. God damn. Whenever I think about those fuckers, I start using alliteration." Sam chuckled.

"Does anyone know who they are?" Harry laughed.

"Does anyone honestly want to know? I mean, come on. What if it's a neighbour, or a good friend? Would you ever be able to respect them again if you found out they gallivanted about at night wearing tights and leather? Like a pair of fucked up dominatrix's? Seriously – could you ever look them in they eyes again without thinking of what they do at night?" Sam shrugged. That was a good point. If he ever found out that Dean was running around in tights, he'd never be able to take him seriously again.

Or stop laughing.

"Fair enough. Do they ever actually catch criminals?" Harry laughed, shaking his head.

"They couldn't catch a cold. They never _catch_ anything." The way Harry said the word catch made Sam a bit suspicious, but he let it go. After all, what would a civilian know about what went bump in the night, and the methods used to…apprehend them? Not a lot. Unfortunately.

Harry poured Sam another drink, and the two men continued to talk, watching as the crowd around the pool table eventually dissipated, leaving two men playing each other. Occasionally Harry or Sam would take over more beer for them. Dean and Sirius, two pool hustlers, duelling to the death.

Or at least, until they run out of beer.

And money.

_Okkie dokey. I am quite away that, in the course of this chapter, I have bad mouthed Slashers and fan girls alike. Why did I do this? because I find it funny. Especially as I'm an unbelievably huge slasher myself. I love slash, and several other non canon pairings in both the Harry Potter and Supernatural fandom's. In fact, if you look on my profile, you'll find a H.P story with a Lucius/Harry pairing. Plug? What plug? Hope you enjoyed the chapter. I don't own. Review if you want to. (But it'll make me happy, super excited and have people giving me weird looks. More than usual.)_


	3. Chapter 3

Hello everyone, my house caught fire early yesterday morning, Tuesday 20th of November. My house was gutted almost completely, and no remains of my laptop can be found at all. I've found a few of my thumb drives, but they aren't really working too well. This note is just to say that any updates will be suspended for a while. Temporary hiatus at worst, I'm optimistically hoping for. I'm sorry about the delay, but I'll going to try and write up some new chapters, mainly to keep myself occupied. This note will disappear once I'm ready with an update.

Love, Leelus Skittles.


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